


Maddening Love

by jetblacklilac



Series: Lifetimes of Devotion [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Reincarnation AU, asylum AU, gotta go thru the angst first before reading the cheesiest things ever, sadness level: medium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-18 05:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16112219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: “Doctor? Seven Hells, what has that got to do with you? You’re a Lady, Sansa. You should be addressed as Lady of House Stark.” He adamantly insisted.Later, when she sat alone in her cold apartment, it dawned to her that she didn’t mention her last name.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you remember this fic you can apply to be a veteran. i got this off my other account because i want to edit it in this account and i have a soft spot for this work. i honestly adore this fic and i hope you do too

Grey walls greeted her on this particular floor.

Sansa walked along the numerous lines of tightly sealed doors, beneath each of it is a gap from the smooth greyer floor, and she pretends to not spot the shadows constantly moving. Fidgeting, she corrected herself and swore her fingers mimicked her thought as the professionally clipped nails tapped against the back of her clipboard.

The heels of her shoes almost followed the erratic beats of her heart.  _Thud_. _You’re close. Thud. He's close._  Her jaw coiled in anticipation as she stood in front of, the printed number stared back at her in that ugly red paint the hospital continues in using.

Upon the regulations of the hospital, a medium sized bed is pushed on the left side of an average spaced room. There was no window or a method of escape for their patients. It was barren with furniture because any of them could chip off the wood and hurt themselves with it in the past evidences. The bed frame is steel, Valyrian Steel, Tyrion Lannister boasted to the investors. _It could cut them harder_ , she wanted to say but she lowered her head instead.

It wasn’t difficult in finding the person inhabiting this room. Her throat tightened and she swore the corners of her eyes stung at the very notion of him.  _My patient and nothing more_ but oh the cracks in her heart felt more prominent now.

She assumed his height would be tall, maybe an inch or two above hers but his shoulders are always caved in like a burden she couldn’t see weighs him down.  _In my dreams, I stand tall and proud. Are they even dreams or memories?_ She clears her throat, her mind preparing for the usual scene and the usual heartache.

  
Jon Snow turns away from staring at the vacant wall and his pewter eyes study her with interest. “Sansa.” He breathes in relief. He staggers to stand, a challenge since he probably sat there for hours with his lethargy as company. His curls of ebony bounce, though matted and greasy, on his head and his full mouth curves into a beam. Somehow, energy fuels his systems and he sprints to her. The force of the impact could’ve made her stumble back but she stands strong,  _I have to for him_.

“Mister Snow, how are you today?” Sansa questioned, hoping for it to be formal and the concern is hiding well enough underneath her tongue.

His attention towards her is always frenzied, frantically desperate. His hands roamed her arms that are obscured by the white lab coat she dons and her clothed hips. But oh his heat seeps in her veins, making her blood simmers at the slightest swipe of his palms. “Sansa, the White Walkers are coming for us, for everyone! I don’t know where we are but we have to go to Winterfell. It’s our home.” He whispered, hushed and measured like the walls have ears.  _We have surveillance cameras for that._

She wanted to take note of this on her clipboard, jot down that his medication isn’t effective and they have to up his dose. Yet she allows Jon to cage her in his arms, murmuring about the same things in a routine. Comfort would be an absurd label of the sensations sweeping in her insides. How she could be sleep with the husk of his voice but there aren’t any other heavenly definitions other than that.

  
“Mister Snow, there’s a report you’ve been violent with your nurses? No one is trying to harm you. You’re safe here.” Sansa gently reprimanded him. She angled her face so they were directly staring at each other. There wasn’t a stream of sunlight in this windowless room but the gleam in his eyes was there nonetheless.

“Are you safe here?”

Startled by the question, she frowned. “Pardon?” The moment she asked for permission in indulgence, she regretted it. Doctors shouldn’t exercise the patient’s delusions. Everyone in the ward knew this. Yet the mention, a concern for her well-being, is puzzling considering the fact no one has asked her that sort of question inn a long time. Granted, she hasn’t has a lover since forever and safe isn’t a word she experienced her whole life.

Now, his spine finally straightened and their noses would brush if only they weren’t in their dilemma of distance and rules. “I don’t trust anyone.” _Paranoid_. “Even more so when it comes to you. Let me protect you. I have to keep you safe from Littlefinger, from the White Walkers, and from the damn Southerners. Let’s stay in Winterfell. Let’s be safe together. I promised I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?” He damn near begged her to remember, his eyes water, the scrunch in the middle of his brows increased, and his hands on her shoulders dug deep as despair is evident in his voice. These eccentric names never made sense to her and she hated how she spent nights pouring unnecessary attention to it.

Sansa couldn’t explain a tug at the back of her mind. A brief glimpse teases her: of cloaked furs, the conventional chill in her bones and leathered gloves grazing on her arms much like Jon’s actions right now. If she was honest, Jon’s words scared her because a wave crashes in her ribs as though a part of her wants to collide against him. But she can’t. Jon Snow is a patient who is brought to her asylum almost two years ago. And since then, she has never seen grey the same way because it’s all him, he surrounds and haunts her.

_No, he comforts me. Perhaps, I’m lonely._

When Sansa was young, her mother reads knights and fair maidens for bedtime stories. She pocketed these fantasies almost all her life but now, they’re kept inside a large chest with a silver lock and kicked to the far edge of her mind. But Jon’s voice slithers past its defences and she can’t help but compare her patient to the fearless knights she used to dream about. They fill her mind and it is always hard to think of anything else but that.

She forced herself to truly see Jon the way he is. The dark circles under his eyes are much darker now, the beard swallows half of his cheeks and getting longer by the looks of it. His arms and body are thinner than when he was admitted. His expression and stance should exhibit forlorn hopelessness. Yet what he expresses is far worse, it’s hope, it’s a constant wish for their safety she could never comprehend.

_They want me dead, Sansa. I can’t die again, not until you’re away from them and you’re safe._

 

“I want you to eat more, Mister Snow.” Sansa chastises pathetically, completely forgetting the topic of their conversation. “And for you to actually drink your meds.”

  
Jon shook his head. “That milk from the poppy? No! I don’t want to keep on sleeping. I, we have to escape here. I bet it’s Dragon Queen keeping us here. She’s trying to get me to bend the knee but I won’t. The North is ours, my sweet Sansa, and I’ll keep it that way no matter what. Our family has greatly suffered for the North and I will too before I’ll give in to a foreign ruler.” He elaborated his scheme to her and the tone heavily emphasized on her and it’s always been about her “safety” and their “North”.

Once, when Sansa gave him his meds and he is drowsy with it, she demanded genuine answers for his delusions. Jon gave her an amused look as he pulled the cotton blanket on his chest. “Delusions? Sweetling, we share a life together. Winterfell is our home.”

She sat on the wooden chair, dumbly gazing at his slumbering figure. _How did he know I lived in Winterfell?_ She wonders about her childhood home; the very same one she shared with her parents, her brothers and Arya. Maybe, she speculated, he used to live there as well and she hasn’t noticed his residence there. But this mad man would definitely be seared in her mind if he was ever involved in her past.

“Sansa,” He uttered her name and she’s reeled back into the present and her attention is solely devoted to his deep grey eyes. She dimly compares those orbs to a long steeled sword, the same one an honourable knight would use. “I promised you. And I intend to keep you safe.”

 _You already keep me warm in this damning winter._  Sansa inhales the sigh and bobs her head. “And you have done a marvellous job at that. Let me protect you from your nightmares. They’re getting worse, aren’t they? This is why you’ve barely slept lately.” She says, careful and her dance on this thin ice is practiced well enough for her to not miss a step.

“I don’t have to sleep to have nightmares. I live in one. Gods, I don’t remember any of this. The people, food, and things around me are so unknown to me. Everything except you, you’re the only familiar thing in the midst of the South nonsense we’re trapped in.” Jon admitted. His large hands slide down on her biceps and his hold on her increases tenfold. Bruises are surely forming each passing second yet Sansa doesn’t back away. His look of utmost concern is vexing.

Sansa recalled the times wherein she tried to teach Jon to call her Doctor in the first few weeks she was assigned to him. The stubborn man scoffed. He leaned against the wall beside his bed and crossed his arms like some petulant child. “Doctor? Seven Hells, what has that got to do with you? You’re a Lady, Sansa. You should be addressed as Lady of House Stark. The more appropriate title would be Queen in the North not some _doctor._ ” He adamantly insisted.

Later, when she sat alone in her cold apartment, it dawned to her that she didn’t mention her last name.

 _He really cares for me_ , Sansa faintly registers before the door bursts open and a towering blonde woman is quick to stab her patient’s arm with a needle. In a somewhat detached horror, she stares as Brienne carries the slumbering patient to his bed and tucks the sheets snugly around him.

The blonde turns to her with worry. “Are you alright, Sansa? You should really talk to Mister Lannister about this. I strongly suggest having you transfer to another ward. I don’t trust this mad man alone with you.” She points out in logic; the only thing that she leaves on the doorstep before visiting Jon.

Sansa shook her head, the long braid brushes on her back. “I trust Jon. He won’t hurt me.” She vows with steel in her voice. 

She ignores Brienne as the nurse scans the room, to perform the mandatory routine just in case Jon isn't taking his medications, hiding it underneath his tongue only to dispose of it in a trash bin. Sitting at a chair, next to the slumbering man, her fingers tingled, much so whenever she so much as gazes at him. There's a discreet want to touch him, to soothe him as though she has the power to eradicate him of his delusions. Briefly, she wonders what he was before he ended up in this dismal place. Was he a kind man? Did he have a woman he loved and did she love him back? What was he like as a child?

Somehow, the answers hovered at the back of her mind, lingering at the edge, taunting her of the knowledge she feels like she knows. If only she was brave enough to look back, to betray every protocol she has learned in her field. Her disobedience will have a price, this she is certain. But what? Is it enough to break everything she knows for a man who is so deceptively devoted to her? Jon vaguely reminds her of a knight, lost in his cause but find it again. And so the fervent rush of wanting to complete his quest, of basking in glory, blinds him to everything else. A tug in her chest is felt when she secretly suspected she is the center of it all, in all his false beliefs. A stranger she is to him but he knows so much and she merely wants to return the favor with a kindness he hasn't known in forever. 

_I believe him and we feel safe with each other. He might think I’m some highborn of a lost era he used to love. I see a man tormented of his mistakes and demons but sees light in people and tires hard to keep that innocence aflame. I’m enthralled by him._

Yet she never says this out loud because this is private. A secret that only Jon knows and none would believe.


	2. You Don't Have to Say It, I Can Feel It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wore his only kiss on her like a crown. Jon Snow was right. She was his queen, if only in his eyes. And nothing else mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it warms my cold dead heart that some people remember my fics,,,, comments and kudos are so welcomed !!!

“How did you know?” Sansa questioned her nurse with utmost curiosity. They both dined at the cafeteria with the other hospital staffs in lunch time. Her plastic fork dug around the tossed seasoned leaves and bits of fruits but her appetite waned far before she even stepped in this room.

Carnation pink unfurls prettily on Brienne’s cheeks; an adorable reaction she has each and every time Sansa asks about her engagement with one of the owners’ of their esteemed workplace. She shrugged. “It was hard, mind you. Him being an absolute ass and well, I tolerated then loved him eventually.” She answers; her knife paused in the middle of her chicken thigh. The blonde’s clear eyes assessed her friend. “Why are you curious? Are you seeing someone?”

She barked out a bitter laugh, a fitting sound in the bleak environment they’re in. “Gods no.”  _But I am technically seeing Jon._  She cringed at this wicked whisper and focused on the conversation at hand. “I was just asking. And that giant rock on your hand is an awfully difficult thing to not talk about!” She gushed, her voice farce in wonder. She tries to level the smile on her lips so it won’t slip into a frown. The sound of her friend talking about their wedding plans, extravagant things that neither of them is interested in, serves as background noise. Her thoughts have been more chaotic than usual and this can only have one origin; Jon Snow.

After that incident weeks ago, her nights are spent going over most of her psychology books, pouring over the rare disorders that maybe Jon has. Yes, he is delusional, paranoid, and very much anti-social; he barely interacts with the other patients in his ward when they are in the same living room. He sits on a plush chair and stares out the window, clouds crawling over the sky. “I’ve never seen the sky so blue before. In Winterfell, it’s all grey, ice, and snow. It’s a nice change of scenery, right Sansa?” He asked.

She turned without a reply because she understands him. Her hometown is desolated and aloof, the small population know each other and unnecessarily their business as well. Jon reminded her of Winterfell. The grey in his eyes is the constant theme in her hometown, the rigidness and how he is void of humour are what people have described the inhabitants of her town. Her ancestors founded Winterfell and this is why their family is like royalty there. Centuries ago, the Starks dug up this land and called it their own and it spanned for generations, the knowledge passed down to heirs, and now it still breathes and occupies the very North of the country.

Why is it he knows the atmosphere of her hometown? Any other person, especially one in her profession, would dismiss this as a segment of his deluded view of the world, of how everything is bland.

She almost bit her tongue in thinking it was theirs, as though they shared the same home.

_It’s our home, Jon. Winterfell is ours to share with our family._

_My home is your arms around me, sweet love. The space of our castle couldn’t be compared to the vastness of your kind heart._

These voices have no origins yet they unceremoniously make themselves known when Sansa contemplates about Jon. What is it about him that makes her feel as twisted in thinking as him? Was his condition contagious? For more evidence of Sansa’s irrationality when to comes to Jon, she spends more time on this case than any other patient of her ward. If she is to breathe this secret to anyone else, how will she explain herself? Reasons? It’s the precise antidote to her slight obsession of this man.

She shoves all thoughts aside as she has spent each day since Jon has been assigned to him, to research of his background. His mother died in childbirth, foster care became his temporary homes. It turns out, he was a high ranking officer in the U.S, almost a general in the making one of his records proudly stated. But, in one of his battles overseas, he broke down. His own men nearly stabbed him to death for a kind action to the natives of the foreign land they fought on. Jon was in a coma for months and when he woke, the madness did too. He was dishonourably discharged. She found herself finishing an entire bottle of wine to numb the pain that quaked in her chest, that boiled her blood at the idea of him getting every a scratch on his scarred skin, that so much pain tormented this man.

“Don’t you think?” Brienne’s oblivious tone snapped the cord twining her to Jon. She tilted her head to one side. “I think Cersei should be um, not seated right next to my fiancé? It’s a bit weird she requested of this. But I’m afraid of that oaf taking her side instead of mine.” She huffs.

Sansa relaxes, a tiny fraction at that, on the metallic chair they’re on. “You’re the bride. This is your wedding, Bri. I honestly would agree if you’d serve that beer you love so much in your reception.” They both laugh; for once the sound tumbling out of her mouth is genuine.

The next time she visits him is a month from the last. Sansa would love to convince herself it is because of the other responsibilities that loom on her as being the warden here. Warden of the North, Brienne once jested because of how isolated they are from the rest of the compound. She doesn’t tell the blonde how familiar that is, as though a ring she once heard in another time she can’t pinpoint.

  
She pushes her palm against the door and finds Jon, the very magnet of her attention, sitting on the floor barefoot. His legs are up to his chest, head on his knees, and his thinning arms are wrapped around them. _I’m only saddened because I’m human. I feel sorry for sad people._  She recited in her thoughts but it did nothing to decrease the turbulence of concern for him. “Mister Snow.” She called, like a snowflake melting against one’s hand; watery upon hearing her.

He didn’t respond.

Sansa frowned. He always responded to her voice. And in conventional visits, he would spring up to her and spout the same confusing things.

She flipped through the documents clipped on the clipboard and found an unscheduled medication. He’s been prescribed by an even more lethargic medication without her knowing. She dropped the board at the edge of the bed and knelt next to him. No doctor should touch their patient. She wanted to weep at the sight of him.

“I didn’t have a choice, Sansa. He saw Miss Targaryen as she inspected the floor, our new investor, and nearly lost it. He said some things none of us understood so we had to sedate him. A too strong dosage I fear but she demanded it.” Brienne explained with shame in her voice. She shuffled about on the doorway and crossed her toned arms across her chest.

Sansa reached out and traced the thick beard on his jaw. No psychiatric police came in and arrested her for caressing her patient so she went on, skimming her fingers on his arms until he lifted his head. _Why does it feel normal touching you?_

Her heart tripped in its veins at how brilliant the grey in his eyes are. But her wonder is replaced by dread at how dull he looked. Almost as though he wasn’t registering she was kneeling beside him. In any other circumstances, he would’ve hugged her firmly her bones might crack under his passion he has for her. “Is she the Dragon Queen?” She whispered, having to know the face and haughtiness the tiny blonde possesses.

Jon nods.

Briene coughed as a clear diversion from the broken road Sansa would devoutly follow Jon on. “Mister Snow, maybe you should lay down on the bed? It’s much comfier there.” She proposed with a thin lipped smile. She stepped in the sparsely decorated room and assisted the dark haired man to sit on the bed.

They both observed how he merely slumped at the wall beside his bed. His loosened shoulders moved with his heavy breathing and his head lolled to one side, staring at another pearl-white wall. It was the most unsettling sight her eyes have set upon. This man has the energy the sun would envy and yet he lies on the bed like some sack of laundry.

Sansa exhaled a shuddering breath. “He doesn’t deserve this.” She admitted, soft and hesitant. She glanced at her friend and found Brienne with an arched brow.

“That’s a tricky question to ponder on. Because if we start to care for our patients, more than we should, well our hearts will bleed all over our white uniforms. I agree. They deserve none of this cruelty. But, what are we supposed to do except soothe their minds and feed them?” She says in a philosophical tone with a self-deprecated smile on their faces. Jon hasn’t stirred an inch.

 _Let him know true comfort and love._ A hushed voice in her mind suggested. She shook her head and tucked a loose strand of fiery lock behind her ear. She moved before even thinking so and settled at the edge of the bed, mindful that Brienne is watching them with suspicions and theories forming in her decisive mind.

“Jon, why did you think Miss Targaryen is the Dragon Queen? She hardly has scales and wings to fly around on.” She quietly inquired. She is a dragon though. With her rare violet eyes glowing when she is in rage and that is a normal occurrence. Her words could burn the people she berates and turn them into ashes but she still doesn’t have wings or any anatomy of a dragon.

“I don’t have to think. She is and has three dragons in her stead.” Jon hoarsely replied. It pained her to think of the strong possibility of Jon shouting as they pinned him on the ground and injected the sedation medication in him.

Without thinking of consequence, she reached out and ran her nimble fingers through his mess of locks. Tingles sizzled underneath her skin as though she did this before numerous times in front of some hearth in a lost castle. She nods. “Okay and I’ll schedule a bath for you. Your hair is greasy.” She mumbles and her fingers drift down to the stubbles on his neck, no doubt he’d have a lengthy beard if he doesn’t shave. With any other person, initiation of touch would never occur to her. Not when her pasts have done much so without even her permission. Yet here she sits, next to her deluded patient, and her hand grazes on his soft and cold skin like some uncharted land she has to know.

_But you do know him, you’re familiar with him, his skin, his eyes, his hair. He is all you know once._

Flitted scenes of furs on bed, and obscured figures writhing on the surface of it, with sounds that could make men blush. She could almost feel his hands mark her body that sprouts out of blinding pleasure. Touches that can crumble walls; _defenses, my lady, we tore down our defenses with love and this is the sweetest surrender_. She heard a husky whisper in her head with those bizarre images. But whose touch was welcomed in these nights?

These troubling voices are gaining courage each day and it has baffled her even more. But what is more troubling is Jon remained non-responsive to her touches, much to her disappointment. After almost two years of frantically touching her, she’d think if she approached him first he’d answer her touches with his own.

Sansa jumped at the touch of his fingers on the ends of her hair. She eyed him with urgency as his calloused fingers idly twisted a section of her hair into a messy braid. It fell away the second he lets go. They were smiling when the grey and blue of their eyes met. “Where did you learn to braid?” She asked, a little too enthusiastically.

“You did, after a long meeting with the Lords, you’d let me braid your hair. My unsuccessful trails convinced you that I should be taught on how. And you adore the only style I can manage without having to tangle your pretty hair. Well, adored.” Jon answered in a heartbeat. His earnest startled the redhead.

Brienne scoffed. “Come on, Sansa, I’m sure you have other patients to attend to.” She urges and stretches her hand.

Sansa dearly wanted to swat away her friend’s hand away. She wanted to stay in this squared room and listens to his fantasies, let him delve his fingers in her hair and honour her with his gentle touches. These things that no one has deigned to give her. In the words of her ex Ramsay, “You’re a pretty thing and things have value if only they are useful. And yours is on the bed.” Yet Jon’s caresses and wistful voice make her melt, her heart bleeding for him. She wants to run away with him, to his version of Winterfell because it sounds wonderful.

One afternoon, Jon told her they were the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, all their bannermen respect them so, a direwolf named Ghost is fiercely protective of them, and they were happy with their long lives together. “Love in the form of our children rang the empty halls with their giggles. We were happy, Sansa.” He told her.

Sansa left the room, clutching the clipboard tightly, fighting off the smile off her face.

The snap of the door surprised the three people in the room. In came the Dragon Queen, as Jon crowned her. She was escorted with four muscled bodied men. “Take him.” She ordered and they did.

Since Jon is heavily sedated, he didn’t have an ounce of energy to protest as two men dragged him by the arms as they helped in exiting the room. Brienne lowered her eyes. Sansa stood up in fury. “What is the meaning of this? He is min-He is my patient!” Sansa scolded the new and partial owner of the hospital. I need him. It bounced in her mind, begging to be let out.

Daenerys merely cocked her head to one side. “He isn’t your play thing, Doctor Stark. He’s an insane man with dangerous delusions. I requested him to be moved to our South Ward, far from here, in King’s Landing. Their technology is far more advanced. And more practical, I shall keep a watchful eye on this madman-“

“He’s not a madman! And you cannot do that. I shall report to Mr. Tyrion and Mr. Jaime about this, this untimely transfer! He’s having progress here.” Sansa protested. Her heart physically  _ached_  at seeing those brutes dangle Jon like some rag doll. She stood her ground, hands curled by her sides at her defiance.

The clicks of Daenerys’s heels felt louder by the roar of Sansa’s heartbeats. They stood nearer and though the redhead’s height towered, the shorter woman held her chin high like she thinks a crown should rest upon her head.

“I have rights as a partial owner to decide for the betterment of our patients, Doctor Stark. I don’t understand your protests. I do what I do because I can. And this,” her manicured finger pointed at the topic, slouching and inattentive to the fight. “This man attacked me. I do not care for your reasons because at the end of the day, I sign the paper works on transferring him. Don’t try to battle me on this. Fiery words won’t hurt my skin.” And with that, her braided blonde locks swayed as she calmly left the room.

Sansa threw her clipboard against the wall staring at the splinters and bent papers. “Wait.” She uttered beneath a whisper but the guards heard her.

Reluctantly, they stayed beside the door.

She stood before Jon, trying to memorize his face. Now, the tears truly came down her cold cheeks. She raised her hand and cupped his cheek, brought his forehead against his. The little puffs of his breath danced in tiny taps on her face and she welcomed it. _He’ll be safe._ “I’m so sorry Jon.” She susurrated so the men won’t hear her.

Jon lazily straightened his neck to hers and nuzzled his nose against his. “We’ll be better off in another life. This one is by far the hardest to live through, my sweet girl.” He murmured, retaining the cryptic theme of each word he utters. His attention tends to how sorrowful Sansa is; her eyes watery like a turbulent lake, her pink mouth in the saddest of frowns, and her hands trembling.

Almost like they were in _love_. But that word is too much of a pain than pleasure in this instance.

“Jon, I’ll fight for you to stay here. I don’t trust her in treating you well.”  _I need you. I need to believe your sweet fantasies._ Sansa said with firmness. Protocols of hospitals be damned. She has someone in her life who makes her feel secure; a feeling she thought that would be forever lost on her. She has been a good person all her life and got rewarded by years of therapy, bruised skin, and an empty chest. Surely they would understand her desperation for him? It made her recall, if one could even call it that with a spark of familiarity, instances of her smoothly talking to Lords and Ladies of some court and she, a beloved highborn, discusses of politics.

“I wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself in a lost battle, my Lady. The gods are cruel. But they gave us love, they gave me a glimpse of you.” Jon whispered. It was a miracle on how he did it with four men handling him. But, he cranes his neck upwards and places a chaste kiss on her forehead. “And I’ll suffer more if it means in the next life, we’ll be together.”

The guards figured their boss would notice them not behind her so they hastily escaped the scene.

Sansa fell on the floor, her hand clutching her purple silk blouse and clenched her eyes shut. Seven Hells, she didn’t even know _why_ she was crying or why her head hurt, as though those endeared voices are simultaneously mourning for his absence. She doesn’t know why she lets Brienne pat her back and for her to curl against her friend, sobbing and soaking their blouses in the process.

But oh, she felt his lips burn on her skin, marking her. She held on his words like the holy Scriptures and she wore his only kiss on her like a crown. Jon Snow was right. She was his queen, if only in his eyes. And nothing else mattered.


	3. Loving Winter in the Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gods are cruel yet loving someone so far from your grasp is more cruel.  
> Ah but who wrapped love like a gift?  
> People are fools for acting like Pandora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i added a scene bc i wanna be dramatic lol anyways please tell me how this is !!! im a slut for kudos and comments fyi

There wasn’t any difference between this current King’s Landing to the one Jon briefly lived at in his previous life. At times when the sun is high, his room swelters and he is often found lying on the cool cement floor for relief from the heat. He doesn’t even recall the long journey he took as they transferred him to another peculiar setting, so familiar in name but its people are much different. Especially their perspective on things, how they handle dilemmas is much an enigma to Jon. In the initial hours after the daze loosened its hold on him, he expected it was some lucid dream their medications have induced.

But no, Jon was unceremoniously dragged away from Sansa. His fingers drifted to his mouth, a memory of a kiss is the only thing he can cherish in this damning reality. Her skin was smooth and sweet, like the lemon cakes he used to feed her by bits as their children ran around in the field. Of course when they were actually together, he’d do more than just chastely kiss her forehead. After all, Winterfell had more heirs than needed thanks to Jon’s slight obsession with his wife.

His focus on the pale wall never failing and so is the irritation that coils his jaw tighter, almost grinding his teeth. I’m here because of her. The Mother of Dragons and other titles she has attached to her name in a time wherein she had actual dragons that burn people who don’t rally with her and a crown she dreamed more often than breathing.

Though he supposed it isn’t entirely her fault for Jon pleaded to Danaerys that he should be released because they both have a common enemy and it is only logical they work together. Him being without chains and she is to use her wits and dragons. She, in return, gazed at him with such bewilderment. Brienne injected him with clear fluids that are more potent than milk of the poppy. The last thing he truly remembers is his aunt’s impeccable features twisted in a troubling reaction.

He isn’t actually certain the precise amount of days it has been since his transfer. How does time matter when it isn’t spent with the one you love? Jon’s strength came back in bits as the days passed. His fingers clenched tight on the cotton of his pants, at least he feel the pain of exerting effort. Every other moment without her is a waste of his time.

If only he wasn’t sedated then he surely would’ve put up a fight to stay with Sansa, to be near her soothes the storms in his chest and the blue in her eyes reminds him of Winterfell and home. He lifted his hand in front of him, flexing it and in the pastel orange light of sunset, the bruises on his knuckles looked more bloodied, more gruesome to behold. Punching the wall, cursing the gods (Old and New), and tears blurred his eyes seemed to be a fitting reaction in finding out he has been cheated out on his soul mate once more. When the nurses, as they have named themselves, came and treated his wounds, Jon nearly blurted he doesn’t need his wounds to heal. These are portable reminders of his love lost, of how pain and care go hand in hand.

“Good evening, Jon.” A drawl of a welcome interrupted his thoughts. The man was of slight build, grey hair slicked back, his smile and that glint in his eyes did not convey warmth. He wore a long grey lab coat, resembling long rags unlike how the other preppy doctors wore. Whispers from outside his room informed him how this “mad man with a doctorate” is Cersei’s favourite, one of the Lannisters who own the building.

“Must be cold in that old shirt you’ve worn for three days now.” He slightly chided, that slimy smile did nothing to comfort Jon. “You have been scheduled to be under my care today. None of that Freudian nonsense Pycelle puts his money in. My method is more… effective in eradicating your delusions.” He declared.

A shot of lightning struck his heart. He struggled on his bed only to find his limbs ached from staying too long in one position. Eyebrows scrunching at the coolly beaming doctor, he cleared his throat, attempting to find his voice which has been lost for nearly half a moon (Brienne once corrected him saying it was called a month but he ignores this tip.)

“What is it you want to do with me? Talk more?” His voice is rough in the manner of boots scrunching on a gravelled road. He didn’t see the sense in talking to a man that has a skin of some alabaster creature, eyes constantly blinking to fight off the sleep, and he barely helps Jon at all.

_I need to go back to Sansa. I, I need her._

The doctor shook his head, a shadow of a smirk on the corner of his mouth. “Follow me outside and I’ll lead you to my laboratory where our session will begin.” There was mocking in his tone, an inside joke Jon is sure he is the topic of. He widens the door and in came muscled men, donned in white uniforms.

They held him by his arms, plucking him out of the corner of his bed. He struggled and attempted in freeing himself from their hold but their large hands dug harder into his skin. He kicked his feet in the air but Qyburn merely stepped an inch outside of his door and a metallic wheelchair stands before him now.

“Hold him down.” The doctor instructs and he personally constrained him with cool leather straps on his arms and ankles. When he was done, the irate smile is on his face once more. He led the men in rounds of corners and finally entered an elevator.

Jon clenched the wood of where his hands lay uselessly. If only he had Longclaw strapped to him, battling these men and Qyburn included wouldn’t be a problem. But alas, the gods deemed it fit to strip him of everything that could lead him back to his beloved.

When the doors slid open, the scene of never ending doors morphed into a more vacant dark room and Jon knew this is where the former maester’s experiments were made and eventually got him banned from the Citadel or whatever institution he is in. There weren’t any other furniture except for a long oak table with all sorts of machinery at its side, wires and cables arranged atop of their smooth surfaces. Darkness occupied the rest of the room, no noise echoed in the vastness and he’s certain everyone could hear his heart beat in trepidation. The wheeled contraption pasued beside the table, sleek and also had identical leather straps on each corner.

The moment one of his nurses unstrapped him from the straps, his limbs free from the hold, he bolts out of the wheelchair, feet tapping against the floor. His arms flailed as he ran faster, the sheer determination fuelled him with unbounded energy as he raced towards the elevator, an escape in this hellish hole.

“Now, now Mister Snow, why must you delay the inevitable? Mrs Baratheon has given me permission to test my theories. And lady luck, Miss Targaryen stormed in, demanding to put away this ‘severely offending and deluded man’ in the darkest cel-rooms.” Qyburn says, his grin sent shivers down Jon’s spine, more terrifying than the chill of his basement or the dark promise in his eyes. “Your delusions have spurred you to hurt others and that shall not happen once more. Lay him flat on the table.” He gestures to the table.

Jon spat near the doctor’s feet, his breath ragged, and his hands curled into fists. “I will not.” He grounded with clenched teeth. He gave one of his arms a tug but the nurse merely grunted and harshly pulled it back in a painful angle.

Qyburn’s sickening enjoyment increased as he began to fiddle with computers, stretching out the wires. “Perhaps but the anaesthesia shall make you compliant.” He hums in simplicity. He barely registered one of the burly men injecting that damn medication. There wasn’t any numbness washing over his veins in the previous manner done to him. Mere subtle pricks of needles underneath his skin are all he felt.

“I think this is too little of a dosage. He’ll  _feel_  the shocks, sir.” One of the men murmured, assisting the other nurses in strapping him down.

“Bah, he’s a troublesome client this one and he needs to learn conduct.” The doctor replied. He brings a small cup to Jon’s lips, tipping it and some of the water ran past his mouth and wets his hair. “Now, we shall begin.” He announces in glee like a child was given toys to destroy, to leave in pieces as he seeks more enjoyments.

Vaguely, he felt tapes on the sides of his head, wires coiled around his arms and he felt his heart beat furiously against his chest. Get out of here, the anxious organ thundered. You have to escape this.

An unnatural scream flew out of his mouth as currents of electricity ran through his veins, buzzing with such energy there was no way out. His fingernails scraped against the wood of where he lays, the sound is drowned by his shouts out of torment. Clenching his eyes shut, harder than necessary is futile as the streams of sparks intensified. It all invaded his body like conquerors invaded lands without any trouble, stomping hard on his heart and he felt tears running down his face. His spine curved like an archer preparing for a shot at the enemy. It  _hurt_ among the number of things simultaneously happening in him.

He doesn't understand how much pain a man can endure. After all, one of his deaths included being stabbed to death by his sworn brothers, most of death of his is cruel. Why couldn't he die like he did in those rare merciful lives wherein he is old, withered, with children and grandchildren littering the castle grounds? Sansa is by his side, old yet beautiful all the same and she'd press a kiss on his withered cheek as he feels the life in him slipping away.  _That,_ that is the only way anyone should pass away; in a room filled of their loved ones, the love of their life holding their hands, with peace in their veins because they lived a full life. They loved and lived and death is an old friend. 

Jon sobs louder when Qyburn increases the voltage.

There are no gods with him now.

“Si-Sir!” One of the nurses gasped aloud in horror but Jon couldn’t see how it tainted his face, how guilt is evident in his tone. No one responded to his cry of concern. Nothing but Jon’s screams and his limbs trembling as the assault drone don for what felt like days. Gods save me, he prayed to the gods in his thoughts. But he isn’t necessarily sure if those apathetic unnamed spirits were listening to his plea for mercy.

After all, what is one man’s suffering to all the others? Can they even hear him in these stoned walls? There is no weirwood to be found anywhere so his sobs and grunts can’t reach their ears and they cannot see his suffering. The manner how his face is red, his throat ached, and there are frantically drawn lines where his fingers have marked.

_All I ever wanted is Sansa, my dearest. Why am I being punished for loving my soul mate? The very person the gods have made for me as I am made for her. Do people in love ever get happiness?_

Finally, the waves receded away from his nerves. He is left a pile of quivering limbs, ragged and broken breaths barely crawl out of his lips, bleeding and sorely red. He paid no attention as they loosened him from the constraints. The nurses’ faces were vacant but their eyes shone with pity and shame as they rechecked his vitals.

“Wh-where am I?” Jon mumbles, finding his voice above a whisper would further compromise the ache in his throat. This isn’t the room he was thrown in weeks ago.

Qyburn wore the satisfied smile as he clasped his hands together. “Memory loss is often a side effect to my treatment, Mister Snow. I find that most reassuring of the efficient and swift results we shall pull out of you.” He says; his voice swimming in Jon’s foggy mind.

More sunrise and sunsets morphed outside of the small and heavily barred window. It was carved several feet above of Jon so he couldn’t even touch the edges, feel cool air skim on his fingers, a taste of what freedom could be like.

These torturous sessions progressed by the days but only in the darkest nights. Jon would usually be found curled up in his stiff bed, completely at ease because in his dreams, he is with Sansa. The scenes vary from one life to the next; some were horrid wherein he never got to meet her but the others, they lived their lives side by side.

One of them included he was a prince of a forgotten (or shunned as some would whisper) nation and comes into her care, the Queen in the North. Winterfell needs an heir as everyone knows. Suitors came in with their Houses glinting at the prospect of having their sons wed to such an eligible woman. She denied all of them, those of even with deep pockets and men that might’ve sprung out of songs she loves. The very same ones Sansa taught him to dance to, her giggles much sweeter than any note a musician could pluck out of their high harp. Jon smiled as he clutched the thin blanket in receiving his love’s brilliant beam as she announces the queen will wed him.

He nearly shouted when the nurses woke up, quickly sedating him, then dragged him to where Qyburn awaits for them.

Jon once saw electric sparks in a construction site in the military camp he was assigned in. It fascinated him how tiny bright blue sparks flew out the apparatus one of his men held. He forgot the name then and certainly he couldn’t as he felt the illuminated blue in his veins, coursing through him like a flood. Its tendrils wrapping tighter in his lungs and heart, making it difficult for him to breathe, to stay in this world a little longer.

His foolish heart retains its stubborn optimistic view of wanting to meet Sansa. It is the only word that tethers him in this reality similar to how the four straps restrain him from fully arching off the table in pain, in something so inhumane.

On a mockingly lovely afternoon, the door opens and Daenerys Targaryen enters the cell, his room of confinement. She is radiant as ever, in any lifetime really. Her silver locks are braided down her back, sways to her movements. The violet in her eyes is clear and he recalls men falling on their knees at such a sight. But not he, no he has his own beauty to gawk at. She strides to the foot of the bed as though she’s walking down an isle for her coronation; proud and dangerous are all she’s ever been.

He doesn’t bother in tidying his horrid appearance for her sake. He knows his cotton shirt and pants are loose, his hair long and knotted. Once he happens to pass by a looking glass, and his reflection startled him. Hollow cheeks, his clavicle pushing tight against his skin, his complexion nearly matches the snow in Winterfell.

“Jon.” She greets in that farce saccharine tone that makes him greet his teeth, reply her greeting with stubborn silence.

“What are you doing here?” His throat _hurt_ when he spoke.

She tilts her head to one side, the sunlight from the only window of the room spilling softly on her young face. “That isn’t the manner in which you should address a sovereign. King to Queen, titles is still necessary to use, my lord.” She chides nonchalantly, stance loose and perhaps it’s because Jon knows her brutal bodyguards are positioned outside the door.

Jon’s mouth hung open in shock. He hadn’t known anyone else to know what it does, to have the burden of all the pasts swirl in his mind, ache in his chest, and for the power to do nothing but mourn and grieve. “So you remember.” He grumbles, not moving an inch form where he’s huddled away from her. His skinny knees are up to his chest, thin fingers bunching on the blanket beneath him.

“I thought I wouldn’t meet you this time. A curious meet up this is, my nephew.” She drawls like she has all the time in the world; the very thing she has always yearned for.

He winces at that title, he loathes it with a furiousness of a wolf against its foe. Oh how he detested himself, his blood, for weeks upon hearing the revelation. All of a sudden his sense of honour has shifted, through all the blood and ashes of his true name, to the wretched Iron Throne that he didn’t even want. Yet Sansa, with ice in her eyes yet her touch so warm, cooled his temper and made him see the opportunity; marriage. 

“You were the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros, the King in the North, the youngest commander of the Night’s Watch and yet you look like a beggar of a common folk.” A tiny laugh pushes through her plump lips. Her eyes sparkle like jewels but the tone of her voice is dark, as dark as the scales on her beloved dragons.  _Why do people love a pretty face but ignore how it's a shield for something so dark, so menacing to the touch?_

“You haven’t answered my question, _Your Grace._ ” He hurls the title back with as much venom as she can muster. The strength in him is waning he knows but he'll be  _damned_ if he'll let her spit on his name like this, after everything he's done for the realm, the North. All he's ever done is acted within the unwritten honourable laws his uncle wrote in the very crevices of his bones

She folds her hands neatly in front of him. “To see the infamous Targaryen madness come to play. It wasn’t a pretty picture I admit, but Mrs Baratheon trusts in her little creature to cure you. As though there is such a thing for a disease so deeply embedded in our veins, nephew, my _poor_ nephew who has nothing.” She tuts and she has the perfect picture of sympathy painted on her fair face. Jon knows better.

“Do you even _know_ what they do to me here? Or is this the deepest seventh hell and you are its gatekeeper?” His voice cracked, much like his soul, his heart and its shards pierce the bones of his ribs making it hard to breathe, to _live._ He wanted everything to stop aching and hurting. He wanted love in the form of his wife.

“A queen must know what happens to her subjects.”

“I am not your subject. I am a King in my own rights, I rank higher than you in the law of inheritance, in the means of acquiring the crown for the  Iron Throne. Don’t throw around words you do not understand.” Jon snarled, bared his teeth like a wolf that is cornered and helpless.  _You are a queen in your dreams. Nothing more than a white lie to make you feel better, to make the blood on your hands seem like Myrish red silk, so pretty as it drips down to the floor. It's a word of comfort for you._

The tiny blonde straightened her spine, her mouth fell flat in a tensed line, and her hands groped each other tighter. “The madness has reached a level of incurability I see. Our family name is black in our blood, Jon or should I say Aegon?” She sneered. If she had her precious dragins right now, they would've mimicked her actions. What children are for? “I shall inform Mrs Baratheon and her little pet to treat you with more _fervent_ determination.” She concludes then turns around, the deep red of her dress reminds him of the blood drenching a battle field, all for power, for a damn crown he never wanted.

Later, as the sunrise out his window paints the white palls in pastel prettiness, Jon curls on himself, pressing more on the corner of his room. His thoughts are always saturated after those sessions with that wicked man. All notions are inconstant except one; Sansa Stark. But how is he to meet her when every move he makes is spied on by the guards and Qyburn’s nurses.

Sansa is most probably leagues away, maybe even nations a distance. _I won’t be with her this time._  He realized in a jolt of fear, tears stung at the corner of his eyes. And so, he refused to eat or drink. When it is time for their medications, he stuffs those white and blue pills underneath his mattress. In the nights wherein he is brought to Qyburn, he doesn’t scream anymore but his mouth has a river of blood snaking down to his neck.

“Unresponsive” is what Qyburn labelled him with, disappointment twisting his face into a scowl. He poked Jon’s side with a pencil and quickly scribbled words onto paper. “He lost tremendous amount of weight. I fear we have to increase the voltage. He needs to be responsive.” He decrees with grotesque determination.

Months have passed, if Jon had sufficient attention to anything else other than the walls boxed around him. He could scarcely move around on his bed. Every breath he takes in, his skin stretches tighter on his bones. Once, he lifted his shirt and with detached horror, he could count the ribs on his chest and his shirt felt like wearing one of Hodor’s clothing, so lose around his waning frame.

“The nerve of that Sansa Stark! Why does she even want to see this dying man? It’s a good thing Mrs Baratheon denied her request for a visitation.” Qyburn’s furious voice rang out from his door. He could imagine the old man pacing, hands twisting in his lab coat. It was dark out so Jon is made aware it was time for those horrid shocks to invade his body once more.

A quiet sob dripped down his mouth. Sansa could’ve been here with him, to comfort him, maybe even to take him away from this hell. He stared at his untouched dinner tray but mainly focused on the porcelain mug of warm water.

 _I will not let him get to me ever again. I shall sleep forever and be with Sansa with our children, with happiness._ He drummed up all his strength and slid out of his bed, legs shaking but he held on the wall, and dug his hand to the side of his mattress where he kept all the pills. It filled his palm. He walked to the small table and retrieved the ceramic cup.

He glanced at the window, stars were at a distance glittering the velvet night sky. The gods are cruel but loving someone so far from your grasp is crueller. Ah but who wrapped love like a gift? But people are fools for acting like Pandora. He shook his head then he unhinged his jaw as the pills spilled into mouth. The lukewarm water poured down his throat.

It felt with a clatter as did his body on the floor, seizing as the effects of the medicine came in numerous tsunamis combined, wrecking his insides. He didn’t scream anymore, not like those instances in the basement, in the middle of the nights for he knew he would be perpetually dreaming of Sansa.


	4. Eternal Like Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Some would say they are cursed, in a perpetual loop of comfort and lost. But they’d counter on how they are the epitome of love; fleeting yet everlasting, they suffer but oh how they endure it for each other"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my favorite fic is ending :/ hope y'all liked the ride !!!

“This one looks perfect!”

Missandei and Jon exchanged amused glances. They stood side by side as the head of Human Resources marvels at the golden framed paintings from centuries back.  The crowd in the same section as them remain oblivious to a pair of sharply dressed people and an elderly man donning a simple grey cotton shirt tucked in tan ankle loose pants and worn down leather shoes.

His aunt’s assistant tapped a long yellow pencil against her beloved clipboard. “Mister Seaworth, you’ve said that precisely each time we visit a location! We must be able to fully separate them so we can determine where the party shall take place.” She smartly reminds them. The clicks of her mauve heels echoed in the spacious hallway they amble at, along with quiet chatters from tourists and couples that spend their honeymoons in Florence.

A tingle bloomed on his shoulder, it wasn’t of pain but felt as though some invisible feather dances on his skin. He ignores it and tugs nervously on the lapel of his wool blazer. “This is such a lavish place for the party. I mean, the ballroom has four chandeliers. Why on Earth is that a necessity?” He grumbled. And to add on his mountain of complaints, he isn’t even sure why Aunt demanded he join the journey around the city.

 Davos shrugged. “Doesn’t she want to be treated like, I don’t know a queen in this ceremony? She did inherit one of the biggest telecommunications company. And that’s worth what, a billion dollars?” He exclaimed in amazement and his voice unintentionally became louder.

Jon hushed the older man. “Please, I get enough talk like this from her. I do not have to hear it now with my friends.” He whined. He held up the brochure of this museum, scanning the priceless paintings with details and it included the main objective of their appointment; the activity centre.

“It is odd how we’re here, Jon. Missandei, you are married to her. Or did you girls marry right after my meddling and not get to know each other enough?” Davos teased with a wagging finger, making the secretary blush madly and Jon to chuckle.

Missandei turned to another left. This section appears to feature ancient sculptures of renowned artists form centuries back, their marble figures shined in the faint afternoon heat. Making them look as though they would melt. There were several displays of lovers, sprawled across or in each other’s arms. He didn’t notice it but he stopped moving, letting his aunt’s assistant and the manager of HR to talk.

One particular sculpture captured his attention. It was carved so there were two figures, in each other’s arms. The man’s face is obscured because it was buried in the woman’s neck. He was rippled of muscle and his hair was tousled like a strong wind has mussed it. The peculiarity is how his mind is stuck at one moment when he assessed, in utmost confusion, of the woman.

With the glare of the afternoon, the woman’s hair, white from marble is bathed in pale honey as though she was blonde. No, she should be kissed by fire. Jon protested; his eyebrows scrunching as he tried to formulate a reason why he even cares if the woman is blonde or redhead. As the minutes passed, he stood there, hands in his pockets, his shoulder tingling like sparks are running down his arm. And somehow, he wants the formed woman to be a redhead.

Perhaps not like Ygritte, his wild past but gentler like how tender this unnamed statue holds her lover. He could almost see the graceful slope of her nose, the high cheekbones always rosy when her lover is near, her mouth resembling two full strokes of young and crushed strawberries. If the woman had colour in her eyes, Jon would’ve been his trust fund it would be blue.

But why am I so sure it would be blue? Who am I thinking of?

“Jon? My boy, we’ve been looking for you! The curator of the museum is here. Come on now.” Davos’ worried voice broke through his struggling inner monologue. He jogged to his side and patted his shoulder. “You alright?” He glanced at the object of Jon’s puzzlement and chuckled. “Don’t worry lad, the celebration will have beauties from all over the world! You’ll have one as pretty as this and she’ll breathe!” He jests and steers Jon away.

No, I will only ever want her. She is definitely kissed by fire and my blood is lava when she kisses me.

He shook his head, the mass of curls brushing the shells of his ears and his forehead. Great, now he is hearing voices in his head. But there was a heavy accent in this voice and scarily, it sounded like him. As though it belonged to another version of him, as he speaks fondly of some woman. But who held my heart then?

Jon sees Missandei first, politely smiling, as she converses with the aforementioned curator. He ignored the sensations intensifying on his left arm, buzzing in his bones like there was electricity in him. “What have you discussed so far?” He questioned, diverting his attention to something logic has a use for. Maybe I’m just anxious to get out of here. He reasons but his legs are walking slightly faster than Davos.

“Well, the tour in the ballroom shall begin shortly-are you really alright? Is your arm okay?” Davos questioned in concern, gesturing to how Jon is rubbing patterns into his arm.

“Nothing serious just, there’s this weird feeling on my arm. Like there are night crawlers walking on my skin. You don’t think there are maggots on this suit, do you?” Jon worries. They were almost to the assistant as the women exchanged documents. He began to unbutton his blazer, unaware of how Davos’ eyes glinted at the implication of his actions. He slung it over his shoulder.

“Have you been feeling this way since we came in?” Davos hummed in inquiry, trying to pass off as nonchalant but there was a father like joy on his face. Like Jon did something in the day worth being proud of other than going around fancy hotels and museums and see which one would fit his aunt the best.

“It’s worse now.” Jon unbuttoned his cufflink and rolled the sleeve of his crisp cream polo shirt to his elbow. In shock, his steps are halted; his eyes are zoned in at the wolf pacing at the crook of his elbow. That tattoo is branded as a sign for one’s soul mate. He has never seen it in action and could only base his knowledge of when Davos met his wife. It is said the tattoo runs on one’s skin in agitation to meet the destined person.

He stared at the wolf, it was pale as snow and ruby for eyes. It impatiently roamed in circles, wanting to be closer to his soul mate. He scanned their surroundings, empty except for them, silence is in the air but his heart thumps harder in anticipation. “What should I do?” He whispered, vaguely wondering if this was a dream.

This is a dream come true.

He isn’t the one to day dream about the person that the gods have twined his heart with. He had other things to worry about, his impulsive aunt, the company they have to run. But those thoughts have fled his mind and he can only speculate on who would stay by his side for the rest of his life. Peeking over his shoulder, he stares at the statue, still bathing in the waning afternoon light.

“Jon, there you are! We couldn’t discuss the fiscal matters without you. Though you are the head of IT, being frugal is in your nature.” Missandei laughs as she walks towards him. Beside her is the most beautiful woman Jon has ever seen.

The wolf ran down to his wrist, leaving subtle tingles in his veins. Jon could only gaze at her, how cherry red of her hair is bright and gleaming against her soft skin. Her eyes are brilliantly clear as skies in summer wherein it felt like the days would never end. Her gait is graceful and measured as though she is of royal descent, a golden crown would be resting on her head and Jon could almost see it.

She wore a silk lilac blouse tucked into satin trousers with simple black heels. Those fiery locks are flowing down her shoulders like twin rivers of fire contrasting the paleness of her skin. “Good afternoon gentlemen.” She greeted.

“This is Davos Seaworth, head of our Human Resources. And this is Jon Targaryen, the nephew of my wife and the reason why we’re all here.” Missandei introduced the men. “And this is Sansa Stark; the curator and activity manager of this notably fine museum.”

The redhead shook hands with Davos and after shaking her hand with Jon, a sharp intake of breath broke the amiable air.

The wolf of snow stopped at Jon’s knuckle meanwhile Sansa’s wolf of grey and darkened ash sits at the very same spot on her hand. The beasts have ceased their movements and sat on their hind legs, stilling forever since the have met.

Memories swirled and washed to the forefront of his mind, most of them not making sense to him. There was one instance wherein they were some sort of lord and lady in a land he doesn’t know, with children of auburn and ebony locks are running in front of them. He glanced to his right and there, snuggled up against him is his dearest wife, content with the domestic scene playing out in the yard of their castle.

The other was Jon back in that asylum, with other patients minding their own business in their shared lobby. He continued to stare out the window, blue and green the things he doesn’t often see in Winterfell. A moment later, Sansa stands at his side, distant but opened her hand to offer blue pills to him. A kindness glows from her face.

Jon could only blink stupidly at her astounded reaction. Is-is she disappointed? He fretted as his hand swayed back to his side.

Daringly, he stepped inches towards her, almost crowding her. He frowned when there were tears in her eyes, like a troubled lake with ripples on its surface. “We don’t have to be together…” He muttered, genuine and heartbroken in the same beat.

They haven’t known each other for more than an hour and yet he would do anything to make her happy, to see her lovely face upturned. If being apart is what she wishes, then he would snatch all the wishing stars in the sky so it would be true. This affection stretches more than this life and maybe they could be happier in the next.

Her small hands grasped his arms, digging her perfect nails into the muscles, unaware of the other two people staring at them with concern. “In-in our last life, I was too late. You-you died before I could rescue you.” She whispered and her thick lashes brushed on her cheeks so tiny crystalline tears raced down to her chin.

Jon shook his head, his arms wounding tight on her hips against his chest. Perhaps so she could feel how his heart is thumping with much more vigour than he could ever remember. “That was in the past, love. Now, the gods have allowed us to meet once again.” He murmured against her forehead and peppered kisses there. Faintly there was a scent of cinnamon and lavender in her hair.

Sansa gingerly inched closer, her face buried in the curve of his neck and her hands climbed upwards to his neck, clutching the curls on the nape and her breathing lessened into calmer breaths. ”I won’t let you go this time. You’re mine, Jon.” She said into his shoulder, determined and firm in her statement.

Jon tightened his hold on her. “Aye, as you are made for me too, my love.” He whispers against her ear and lightly kissed there.

“I guess it’s settled then. The party shall be held here!” Missandei chirped. Her hand is already fishing out her phone, surely to call her wife and to retell what has happened.

“But your decision would be biased.” Sansa teased as they faced the two married people in the room, grinning to their ears. She wrapped her arm on Jon’s waist and her other hand rested on his chest, to reassure herself this happiness isn’t a dream anymore. Her wish came true in the form of the smug dark haired man at her side, running his palm in abstract motions on her back.

Jon pecked the side of her head. “I might be but what a beauty to be biased to.” He says with a wicked grin, thrilled in seeing her blush, the pretty red roses would envy, bloom on her cheeks.

She leads them to the meeting room on the third floor. All the while, their hands are twined and subtle smiles curve their mouths. They let Missandei and Davos first, the other pair understood how private Jon and Sansa feels.

She glanced at him, bringing their hands to her mouth where she places a tiny kiss on the tattoo of his wolf. “I have loved you in all our lives, each of them, my heart is yours. This time, this time we shall take care of each other because I can’t be in this world without you.” She says like a piece of her wedding vow.

“You’re the only one who tethers me here. Wherever you are, I’ll be with you in heart or at your side. The gods may have infinite power and authority of the world but that is nothing compared to a man that’s completely reckless in love like I am.” Jon murmurs back, his tone matching hers in seriousness and protectiveness.

The party went on but there is a much more significant purpose of the evening. Some would say they are cursed, in a perpetual loop of comfort and lost. But they’d counter on how they are the epitome of love; fleeting yet everlasting, they suffer but oh how they endure it for each other.


End file.
